


Autumnal Promises

by noalinnea



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noalinnea/pseuds/noalinnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Zealand in autumn. Sean has just met Viggo when Viggo decides to take the lead...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumnal Promises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Galadriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/gifts).



> For Galadriel who asked for the following: I'd love something that reflects the feel of Autumn. The crisp outdoor air, the warm, cozy indoors; the leaves turning, long walks in the woods, past streams and over bridges, bonfires and warm sweaters, glowing pumpkins/jack-o-lanterns, hayrides, etc.

It is a beautiful afternoon. The treetops on the hillside seem to be glowing in the late afternoon sunlight and small clouds are chasing each other across the sky. There only is a handful of cars left in the parking lot; you have taken your time while the others have waved hasty goodbyes, rushing off into their weekend. Most of them, anyway. _He_ is still here, parting with his ranger for the day, probably while he sifts through a week’s worth of Polaroids, you think, and light another cigarette. _Just a little while longer._

The sun is still strong enough to warm and you have rolled up your sleeves to absorb the light, not quite willing to part with summer just yet. The spot you have chosen is sheltered from the wind and you close your eyes and turn your face into the sun. Maybe it is a little silly to be waiting for him like that, isn’t it? When you could just as well walk over to his trailer and knock. There is no one here who would see you. And besides, it wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary. “Mate, you’re still here? Care for a beer?” And he probably would. But you are reluctant to disrupt his ritual at the end of the day, and most of all, you don’t want to intrude. You don’t want to seem- yes, what? Too _eager_? But what do you expect? What good will come of your lingering, your waiting? Do you really believe that the exchange of a few words will quell your restlessness? That you will find answers while you are sitting out here, answers to questions that you don’t even know how to word?

The sound of a whistled little tune startles you from your thoughts and there is a door being slammed shut. You turn your head, and there he is, striding towards you, his hand raised in greeting. You answer in kind and take another drag from your cigarette, thankful to have something to do with your hands while he closes the distance between you.  
  
“I thought I was the last one left,” he says, smiling. “But apparently I was wrong.”  
  
You feel yourself nod. “It’s nice out here when it gets quiet.”  
  
“It is,” he agrees, sitting down next to you and retrieving a cigarette from his pocket before you feel him hesitate and after a moment’s contemplation he asks: “This wasn’t my cue to say goodbye and leave, was it?”  
  
His eyes are framed by a smile but you can tell he is serious. He doesn’t want to intrude either, and maybe that is what keeps you dancing around each other.  
  
You shake your head. “No, not at all.”  
  
He smiles and nods. “Good.” He fumbles for a lighter, but can’t seem to find one and you offer him yours. An unruly strand of hair tickles your fingers before he brushes it away, out of reach of the small flickering flame. He inhales and rests his head against the wall behind you for a moment before he exhales slowly, smiling at you through a cloud of smoke.  
  
“I was going to go down to the lake to take some pictures of the trees down there,” he points with his cigarette. “The colors are beautiful today.”  
  
You nod. “As if someone has made them golden crowns to wear, as one of my daughters says.”  
  
“Very poetical”, he says. “And what does the other one say?”  
  
You feel your lips stretch into a fond smile. “The forest is one fire.”  
  
He laughs. “A different sort of poetical.”  
  
“Definitely. She’s the practical one.”  
  
There is a short pause and he takes another drag from his cigarette. “Do you want to come? We’ve still got another hour and a half before it gets dark.”

  


You have been dwelling much longer than you have planned, too splendid the colors in the soft afternoon light, the crisp air a most welcome change after the stale air of the studio you have been breathing all day. The path winds around the little lake between solemn old trees on the one side, and the edge of the water on the other. The air is heavy with the smells of autumn, a mixture of wet leaves and wood and mushrooms, which seem to be showing their heads everywhere. He takes a ton of pictures, and you almost make it around the lake and back to the car before dusk falls. Almost. There is a lot of laughter and swearing when you are stumbling along in the half-dark, and more than once you reach for each other for support when your feet slip on the muddy path. Maybe once or twice you reach for him even though you haven’t slipped, and panting, he asks you if you are alright. You nod, yes, you are, before you remember that he can’t see you and tell him you are. “Good,” he murmurs, squeezing your arm. _More than alright, actually._  
  
Neither of you seems to be ready to part for the day when you reach the parking lot, and luckily he does not seem to have any trouble asking what you have wanted to ask for half an hour but not dared to. A glass of wine? At his place? Sure, why not. Both of you have the Saturday off, after all, and you haven’t been to his place yet. And you are curious. But that’s what you don’t tell him.  
  
While the days are still warm, the nights aren’t, and he lights the fireplace in the living room before he pours two glasses of wine. The place is not what you thought it would be, it's posh, without character, and you almost are a little intimidated. But then he tells you laughingly that it is way too fancy for his taste, and apologizes, adding that he is sure that the chaos that comes with him and will make it look more like a home sooner or later. The awkwardness that you experience during the first moments seated on the couch next to him dissipates soon, maybe it’s the wine, maybe his company. The conversation flows effortlessly and you find yourself invariably captured by his hands, gesticulating lively, by the way he keeps brushing a strand of hair out of his face that keeps falling into his eyes, by the way his lips curl around his cigarette one moment and stretch into a wide open grin the next. It makes you feel like a schoolboy and yet- not altogether bad. A harmless crush, nothing more. It will surely pass, and why not be friends?  
  
Hours trickle past, but you don't mind, you don’t want to care that it is getting late, you want this moment to matter, the time shared with him right now. You are comfortable, at ease even, something you know is rare when you are far away from home, and even more so, he makes you feel secure enough to talk about things you have not talked about for weeks when you probably should have. About last year’s wounds, still so very fresh, about broken promises and people left behind, about problems that could not be solved and hearts that could not be mended. And about her, only a couple of months old, already a stranger.  
  
His hand is surprisingly warm on your arm, surprisingly steady, and he does not offer words where there are none, just offers this simple gesture, grounding you, anchoring you, and you swallow hard against the tears that suddenly seem so close, far too close for your comfort. But he is not waiting for an answer, you realize, neither does he expect you to meet his eyes and tell him that you are fine when you aren't.  
  
But your body wants to give an answer, your hand is curling around his hand that rests on your arm, and instantly, his palm turns upwards and he slides his fingers between yours. Your breath catches, and for a moment you cannot meet his eyes and watch his thumb trace circles on the back of your hand. When you then turn towards him you find him smiling, openly, unreserved, and somehow you manage to tell your heart to continue beating, and dare to answer his smile. Your eyes dart from his eyes to his lips, you cannot help it, and you watch his smile widen before he leans closer. Then his hand is tracing your brow, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You are sure that your hand is trembling and curl it more tightly around his before you have to close your eyes, overwhelmed by his close proximity, his warmth, his tenderness, so very surprising, and so very welcome. Again your throat tightens; the tears still only one thought away. But he catches you before you can fall, his lips soft against your forehead, barely touching your temple, your cheeks, before you finally turn your head to meet him, capture him, claim him.  
  
You are not sure if minutes have passed or hours, when he tugs at your hand, up, beckoning you to follow him next door. His bed? Pictures flash past in your head of naked bodies tangling, male bodies, and your head starts to spin. This is new, and unexpected, you don't- and yet- He senses your hesitation, looks at you. "Sean," he says after a moment, his voice impossibly soft, his fingertips tracing your brow. "Don't you want this?" It is exactly the right question to ask, because you have an answer to that- yes, you do want this, there is nothing that you want more right now than to follow him, feel him, see him and taste him- even if you maybe shouldn’t and following him probably entails a lot of other questions that you don’t have an answer to, even if the thought alone of following him seems to make you blush like a virgin, which you are, come to speak of-  
  
He is simply looking at you while he waits patiently and lets you come to terms with the chaos in your head. "I do," you finally hear yourself saying, and you manage to only sound half as breathless as you are. He is everything you want right now. He nods slowly, smiling, before he gently presses his lips to yours. "Don't worry about tomorrow, then. Come."  
  
You stumble after him, dazed by the possibility of being able to do so. In the doorframe he turns to embrace you, his lips back on yours, gentle still, but more demanding. _Hungrier._  
  
He pulls you into the dark bedroom with him without turning on the lights, you are thankful for that, feeling less self-conscious in the dim light from the hallway when he undresses you. Maybe this should feel more alien than it does, you wonder fleetingly, maybe you should be surprised by the coarse hair under your palms, by the feeling of his muscles shifting under your touch when you stretch out on the covers together, by his beard tickling your skin. It doesn't. Nothing feels strange. The only thing you feel is arousal, arousal so intense that it causes you to tremble in his arms. Then his lips are wrapping around you, and you stop asking questions in your head.  
  
You both come at the same time, or almost, your bodies entangled, lips fused, hands matching a rhythm that does not falter once. The sound that he makes against your lips when he comes and the way he bucks against you does it for you, and you spill into his hand, clinging to him. For a moment you both lie panting in the half dark before you hear him chuckle and feel his lips against your brow. You turn towards him, catching his wide grin before he presses a kiss to your lips and pulls you close.  
  
"Don't move," he then whispers and withdraws, only to return with a towel that he offers to you before he climbs back into bed next to you. You pull him towards you when you are done cleaning yourself and the part of the sheets that needs cleaning, and try to chase away the chilly imprint the autumn night has left on his skin. He turns into your embrace and his head comes to rest against your shoulder, his breath tickling your skin. For a long moment you just lie there counting heart beats, his breath ghosting over your skin, while pleasant exhaustion settles over you. But you don't quite dare to relax, the unavoidable question looming above you already, the question if he wants you to stay. Or so you think, your heart getting heavier with every second passing. But for him it is not a question worth pondering over, it seems, because he brushes your concerns away a moment later with a couple of simple words whispered into your ear. "Do you need anything for the night?" he murmurs, before his lips find your temple. You manage to shake your head no, and feel your arms tighten around him. And maybe he is right. Maybe you don't have to worry about tomorrow after all, not now anyway, because right now, you really have got everything you need.


End file.
